


Long Live the King

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to deal with his grief after losing those he holds dear, Bilbo turns to the Ring to reclaim his lost friends. He does.</p><p>But not without a price.</p><p>Inspired by fanart from dwalinroxxx.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The utterly beautiful artwork that inspired this: [[x](https://40.media.tumblr.com/66f7ba7457da7f68939756ad971d2da5/tumblr_nzk9luOZzz1ugiorgo1_500.jpg)]
> 
> Thank you dwalinroxxx for allowing me to write this.
> 
> Also: please be aware that this will not be a nice fic. I will try to warn for any potential triggers.

“...it would be a merrier place. But, sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”  
  


* * *

  
They came together under the moonlight amongst the tall grass. It was hardly romantic, the Dwarf looming over him as they spent themselves, breeches and smallclothes pushed aside just enough to align their cocks - yet he found that he didn’t care, breathing harshly through his nose and biting his lip to prevent any more sound than that.  
  
Thorin was kind enough to tuck Bilbo back into his clothes before collapsing off to the side. He wheezed lightly as he reached for his sword and brought it close to tuck against his side.  
  
The night air was cool. Bilbo lay on his back on Thorin's left and stared at the stars. Their fingers brushed, and he wondered about the future.  
  


* * *

  
This was _impossible_. Bilbo kept Thorin’s cold and dirty hand clasped to his cheek, horrified as he stared at the King. The dead King. Dead, dead, dead -  
  


* * *

  
Kissing through the bars of the door in Thranduil's dungeon was difficult. They managed, though, straining to meet each other's lips until Bilbo’s arms wobbled and refused to take his weight any longer. He kept Thorin’s palm pressed to his lips even as they murmured quietly to each other.  
  
“My Hobbit, my burglar, my invisible spider-killer. You are more lovely than anything I have ever had the pleasure of having.”  
  
Bilbo initially bristled a bit at the idea of being likened to a possession, but he had been amongst Dwarves for enough time to know their conduct and therefore figured not to take offense.   
  
He held Thorin’s hand tightly. “Thorin. You are my King and my love. Rest assured that wherever you go, I follow.”  
  
And Thorin had smiled so brilliantly at him that he could not regret those words.  
  


* * *

  
The tears, the tears, where were they coming from, why wouldn’t they _stop_ -?  
  


* * *

  
_“You miserable Hobbit! You undersized - burglar!” “Get down now to your friends - or I will throw you down!” “I am betrayed.”_  
  
In the Elves’ and Men’s camp, Bilbo closed his eyes.  
  
 _“I love you, I love you, forevermore I will love you.”_  
  
All words Thorin had uttered to him. Bilbo could remember every one of them just as surely as he could feel Thorin’s lips on his neck and Thorin’s hand clenched in his collar. The memories sunk into his bones, and by the way he felt, he was afraid they would shatter and pierce through his skin.  
  
Bilbo rolled his ring in his hands. Despite everything, despite all of it, he knew his mind had been made up. He knew he would enter the battle tomorrow and that he would do his best to remain close to a certain dark-haired Dwarf king.  
  
 _Rest assured that wherever you go, I will follow._  
  


* * *

  
“Come! You are called for.”  
  
It was horrifying to catch sight of Thorin so small and broken and bloody, limp against stained furs. It was even more horrifying to imagine what he would have looked like if Beorn had not borne him from the battle, and if Fíli and Kíli had not fallen defending him.  
  
Bilbo wondered if Thorin was aware that his nephews were dead.  
  
He went to Thorin’s side, the bile at the back of his throat keeping his screams at bay. His forgiveness was asked, begged for, and Bilbo gave it freely. It was not because Thorin deserved forgiveness (though there was hardly any point holding a grudge against someone who would soon die). It was because Bilbo felt just as responsible for this mess. Surely there could have been another way. A better way. Oh, that blasted stone!  
  
Thorin’s eyes slipped closed.  
  
There had been plans, before, for Bilbo to live in Erebor by Thorin’s side. It was an impossibility now. As tears blurred his vision, Bilbo choked and tried to gather his resolve. He would return to the Shire, soon as he could travel. He’d been alone there before, and he’d be alone there now. It was a fitting end to this sorry tale.  
  
Bilbo’s legs gave out from under him.  
  
After all he had done - and perhaps because of it - he was going to lose them.  
  
 _He had lost them._  
  


* * *

  
The tears didn’t cease. The anger rose.


	2. Chapter 2

You owe nothing to anyone. Nothing. You were forced from your home on a whim, a guess that the taste for adventure would awaken in your blood once more. And for what? What has it brought you?  
  
Near-death. Near-death and death.  
  
Exactly. And ingratitude to go with it -  
  
But there was also happiness. Friendship. Love.  
  
What use is love when it is tossed aside for gold and trinkets? What use is love when the one you want is dead?  
  
I -  
  
By your own hand?  
  
I did not kill him. I did not kill any of them.  
  
And yet you did.  
  
…how?  
  
Inaction. I told you then that you need only use me. With me you could have smote all your enemies with one blow.  
  
I did not want that power. I do not.  
  
You say that, but you do not believe it. I can see through you to your heart of hearts. You do not believe your own words. You regret ignoring me. You regret being unable to save your friends… your lover.  
  
I -  
  
Worthless. Useless. Isn't that what you are, who you are? What was the point of having you around? All you were, even from the start, was a burden. You were not good for anything. Not until you found me. How else would you have 'saved' them from the Mirkwood? How else would you have gotten so close to the dragon Smaug?  
  
I would have found a way.  
  
You would not. You would have fretted, and despaired, and achieved nothing. Even with me you did more harm than good. You would not use me to my full potential, and so those close to you are dead, or hurt, or hurting. You should not have left your front door. You should not have left your cosy smial, with its armchair, with your books, with your mother's crockery and your father's pipe. Why do you not admit that everyone would be better off without you? You certainly believe it.  
  
Enough! I will not sit here and be bullied -  
  
You have been bullied all your life, have you not? I thought you’d be used to it. Bullied into respectability once your mother died -  
  
Do not talk about -  
  
Bullied into this farce of a quest by those who were practically strangers -  
  
We succeeded in, in the end -  
  
Bullied into returning the affections of a King unable to care for his kith and kin, much less a stupid, lowly, worthless -  
  
This isn’t bullying?  
  
I am merely saying out loud what you already know. The words from my mouth are all there in your head and heart… but you know this, don’t you?  
  
It’s... it's not important.  
  
And yet you dwell on it. Constantly. Over and over and over, like a drop of water in a cave, endlessly trickling in the corner. Second after second, minute after minute. Days and months and years will soon pass. You will drive yourself mad.  
  
If you don’t do it first.  
  
That is unkind. I am attempting to help you.  
  
You have your own motives.  
  
Hardly. I only want you to be satisfied.  
  
You only want me to be - Why?  
  
I am yours. I am a reflection of you and what you do. I cannot control you - only you can control me.  
  
And…  
  
And?  
  
What might I gain, from controlling you?  
  
I could give you what you want. I could give you your heart’s fiercest desire.  
  
That’s - no, that’s not possible.  
  
I would not mention it if that was so. If you could destroy armies with a thought, why not reverse that process with a single Dwarf?  
  
I -  
  
Or maybe three?  
  
That… that is impossible magic. Even if, even if it were not, there is a reason why it is not done -  
  
The reason it is not done is because no one has power enough to do so successfully - or the knowledge. I could give you the words. I could give you some of this power.  
  
Only some of the power?  
  
The rest is your own will. And I know as you know that, for this, you are more than capable. You only need accept me and you can do what you wish.  
  
It’s not…  
  
You and your family may live together in this mountain, as all of you wanted. It would be restored to surpass its former glory, as your lover and his nephews would have wanted. You would no longer be alone, as you have always, always wanted. Why do you still resist?  
  
It… sounds too good…  
  
Only because everything seems so very terrible in this moment. You are free to make your choice, of course, but I will remind you that as you waste more time, your Dwarves’ bodies rot. I will restore them, but they will not be the same.  
  
And you promise that things will go back the way they were?  
  
Do you want to save them?  
  
I want to save them.  
  
Do you want my power?  
  
I want your power.  
  
Do you -  
  
\- want -  
  
\- power -  
  
No, no, no -  
  
Be calm.  
  
\- wait, wait, no -  
  
Yes.  
  
You are hurting me!  
  
You have agreed. You have accepted. Breathe. Breathe as I will breathe the power into you. This is all for your Dwarves. Do you want it?  
  
I promise. I promise, we promise you are mine I am yours, we are -  
  
We are  
  
Power.  
  
  
  
Let us begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too confusing! *rubs hands* Now the fun begins.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have permission to post the artwork, here:

 

* * *

 

The thing sitting across from him was not Bilbo Baggins. Or was not _wholly_ the fastidious and brave Hobbit he remembered.

 

That was alright. Thorin didn’t feel like himself either.

 

This was likely due to the fact that he was quite sure he’d seen his own intestines uncoiled outside his own body as he bled onto the ground of the war field. Now they were safely tucked within his belly, contained behind a shiny pink scar that should not – could not – have formed so quickly.

 

“I was dead,” he said, perhaps more calmly than the situation called for.

 

“Yes,” said Bilbo. “I brought you back to me.”

 

“I see.”

 

The Hobbit walked forwards. Where his movements had once been clunky and awkward, moving into somewhat graceful as time went on, Bilbo now slinked, slithered like a snake. Thorin tried to frown. No, he did not move like a snake. More of a –

 

A dragon.

 

Bilbo’s smile was tight-lipped, and bared no teeth as was usual. Thorin had to wonder whether there would have been fangs otherwise.

 

“Not bothered?”

 

“Strange things have happened throughout my life – and death.” Thorin attempted to sit up but struggled – his muscles were stiff, thanks to his brief demise. “What is one more?”

 

One small hand rested on the middle of his chest. Perhaps it was his body’s current weakness, perhaps it was something else; Thorin found himself pushed down easily. Too easily. Bilbo’s hand was a dead weight (pardon the pun) on his sternum, keeping him still.

 

“Exerting yourself unduly is unwise. Especially after what I have done for you.” His hand slid to Thorin’s shoulder and he raised his knee so it rested on the cot. “Stay on your back.”

 

Something sluggishly occurred to Thorin. “My nephews?”

 

“They live. They were easy to bring back.” He tossed his head contemptuously. "Too easy."

 

“You are right.” Thorin could feel every beat of his heart in his chest. Funny that he’d always taken it for granted. “I am in your debt, Bilbo Baggins.”

 

Fire – actual orange light – flashed in the Hobbit’s eyes. For a second, no more. “You have much to atone for, my King… and not merely for your actions regarding the Arkenstone.”

 

That was… fair.

 

“You begged for my forgiveness.” Now Bilbo’s fingers went to Thorin’s hair, tugging absently. “You do not have it. Not yet.”

 

Thorin stared up at him, eyes containing only marginally more life in them than when he’d actually been dead. “What must I do?”

 

“Earn it.” He smirked and dropped his sword belt to the floor, keeping his hand on the waist of his breeches. “You may start now.”

 

* * *

 

When they were Dwarflings, they’d been born outside of a proper home in the mountains, away from the heat of thousands of foundries. As a result, Fíli and Kíli could brave temperatures lower than most other Dwarves; and yet as they lay together in their allotted tent, they clung to each other and shivered miserably.

 

They didn’t speak. They’d been unusually attuned to each other even since Kíli’s birth; their family attributed it to their small age difference. As they grew, they would jabber in their own special language (more of a series of whistles and clicks than anything), or communicate only via touches.

 

They did the latter now.

 

They’d been dead. They were sure of it. They’d fallen defending their uncle and King – an honourable death, to be sure. Kíli had crawled close to Fíli’s side to watch his brother convulse and choke. It was only once the crown prince breathed his last that Kíli followed suit, collapsing onto Fíli’s chest.

 

What was left of their blood had mingled in the dust.

 

But now they lived, they breathed. Fíli gripped Kíli’s thigh tightly, where bone had been jutting out only hours before. Kíli skimmed his hand over what had been a shattered nose.

 

 _This is impossible_ , their touches said. _You were dead, I was dead_.

 

And yet there they were. Alive.

 

It had been their first real battle. Everything before had been nothing but child's play. The Goblins' caves in the Misty Mountains had been madness – noisy and frantic and _exhilarating_ – but it had not been the same. For one thing, there had been even more enemies to fight, even more beings around them; humans and Elves and their own people in addition to the Orcs and Goblins. While they had started out strong and motivated, they had only waned as time went on. It had just... _kept going_.

 

Kíli ran out of arrows. Fíli shattered one of his swords.

 

They attacked and blocked, slashed and dodged and feinted. There was always another target for their weapons to replace the last enemy that had fallen. And although they fought back to back, as they always had, they were a far cry from infallible.

 

It was a bitter lesson to learn.

 

Tired as they'd been, though, and however disheartened, their eyes had been keen enough to catch sight of something that had energy surging through their bodies – that had them running across the battlefield, hearts in their mouths, running towards –

 

They both sat up.

 

Thorin.

 

The tent flap was pulled back. Fíli and Kíli turned to the Dwarf standing silhouetted there, who looked surprised to see them awake and alert.

 

“The King requires your presence.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin had been Dwalin's friend for practically all of his life. He had not yet been born when Erebor had been attacked by the worm Smaug, but he had fought at Thorin's side in Moria. They had tasted grief there, together, and persevered, drawing comfort from each other and going on to fight more battles. Even setting aside the fact that they were family, there was an unmistakeable bond between them. They were brothers, just as Balin was his and Frerin was Thorin's.

 

His brother Thorin had been dead, two hours ago.

 

"Sit still!' Dwalin barked, pressing down on Sasin's shoulder. The soldier had taken a blow to the arm that had managed to buckle the armour – and removing it without severing his limb at the elbow was proving to be difficult. "You'll lose your arm 'f you don't!"

 

Sasin spat a curse at him past the square of leather between his teeth. The attending healer chuckled.

 

The only reason Dwalin was in here and not helping to clear the battlefield – or, even better, rounding up whatever Orcs still survived – was because he could no longer see out of his left eye. He was a seasoned enough war veteran to know that all injuries should be looked at as soon as possible, especially when dealing with the poisoned blades the enemy favoured. The loss of his sight was not due to negligence but necessity. It had been necessary to kick that Warg in the face before it feasted on Kíli’s ruined leg. It had been necessary to take the blow meant for Fíli’s dead body.

 

It had been necessary – imperative – to stand guard until the Shapeshifter carried Thorin away. He would not have allowed his brother's body to be hewn when he had already passed to the Maker's Halls.

 

And yet Thorin was now alive.

 

Dwalin did not understand – and that, he realised now, was another reason why he was in one of the healing tents. He needed time before he could face Thorin, whether or not the King was yet awake. He didn't know if he could look at that face or into those pale eyes without seeing Thorin fall.

 

He didn't know what was going on.

 

"Right. Y'can let off, now." The healer sighed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "He's passed out."

 

So the lad had. Dwalin eased his hold, feeling older than he had any right to feel. "He'll live, then?"

 

"Aye. Dinnae know if he'll keep that arm."

 

Dwalin nodded. That was as good as dying to many a Dwarf – never mind that explosions in forges and mineshaft collapses and the like had resulted in just as many amputations as war. The false limbs that Dwarves could make and use did not yet have mechanisms complicated enough to handle the fine detail of a lot of their craft.

 

He left the tent, hating that the stench of death stayed in the air even as he stepped into the open. It reminded him of Azanulbizar. All they needed now was burning pyres to complete the memory.

 

Then, they had won the battle of arms, but they had lost so much. So many dead, including the King and his son. Including his and Balin's father. But they had not only grieved for the friends and family that were gone, they had grieved for their ancient kingdom – Khazad-dûm was, as far as they knew, still lost to Goblins and Durin's Bane. It had been a victory and, at the same time, not.

 

Considering that Dain had arrived from the Iron Hills with 500 Dwarves at his back, this battle could not compare with Azanulbizar. They had won against the enemy. More than that, they had won Erebor. They had won their _home_ – and while it would be some time before the mountain was restored to its former glory, at least those Dwarves who had laid down their lives could be returned to the stone.

 

Dwalin could not help thinking that there were three other bodies that should have been laid to rest.

 

 _How_ could it be that Thorin and Fíli and Kíli were still alive? How was it possible? Was it feasible that they could have been mistaken, that they three had merely been poisoned to look like they were dead?

 

Dwalin shook his head with a growl. No. The injuries they had endured were more than serious enough to fell them. Skilled as they were, they’d been overwhelmed – but now they bore no wound or scratch. Many Dwarves praised Mahal for performing such a miracle. Dwalin was not so sure.

 

He looked up, and cursed.

 

Unknowingly, his feet had led him to the place he’d so desperately tried to ignore; Thorin’s tent. Caught between turning on his heel and heading inside, Dwalin scowled as his fists clenched at his sides. Was he really ready to speak to the friend he’d seen die?

 

_Come now. When did you turn into such a coward?_

 

The Hobbit was there under the furs, tucked into Thorin's side and snoozing happily. Dwalin was quite sure that those were his trousers on the floor by the cot.

 

"So you still live."

 

Thorin chuckled. "And you still have a marvellous grasp for understatement."

 

"I saw you die, Thorin." He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest and pointedly ignoring the small stool next to the cot. "While I still had _both_ my eyes."

 

"What's important is that I'm alive now." Dwalin watched as he – unconsciously – stroked his fingers through light brown curls. "Don't you agree?"

 

"Better you than Dain on the throne," he agreed grudgingly, "though that isn't saying much, considering what a cock up it's been so far."

 

Thorin's gaze hardened. "I wasn't alone."

 

Again, Dwalin had to agree. Shame clenched over his heart as the memories surfaced – at the time, it felt like he'd been living life through a fog. All that gold – perhaps even the Arkenstone – had just been too much. They all had foregone all common sense and had cast their Hobbit aside like dirt. Not that much good had come of Bilbo’s efforts.

 

Still, it couldn’t be denied – Thorin was alive, and Bilbo was by his side. Smaug was dead. Erebor was theirs.

 

Perhaps… perhaps this was a second chance. For all of them.

 

A long time ago, almost too long ago, he had made a solemn oath that he would follow Thorin to Hell and back. Thorin had sworn to do the same. He could confidently say that this held true now as it ever had.

 

He reached out his hand. Thorin clasped it.

 

Just as Dwalin turned to leave, he caught Bilbo's now-open eyes. Bilbo smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this got updated at all is because of alkjira's help. Exactly like a cat that I scratch with scene previews and purrs in response. Anyway, lots of writing aid from her, so thank you.

Fíli and Kíli were beside themselves when they saw that their uncle and King was alive and well. They'd clung to him as they had clung to each other only moments before; there were no tears, but neither could find the words or the breath to articulate just how relieved they were. Even damaged as Thorin was now (a mistake Bilbo was sure he could live with), his eyes softened when he saw that his heirs had survived.

 

The young Dwarves were almost as joyful when they found out that their burglar was also alright - and that he'd been absolved of all his 'crimes'. And that he was to be their uncle as well.

 

"I'd rather you two didn't flatten me," Bilbo said waspishly. Physical contact was all well and good when he initiated it - and he'd rather initiate it with Thorin, to be quite frank - but for now he found their presence cloying.

 

If the two of them had any frowns for the Hobbit's behaviour, they were quickly smoothed away when Thorin bid them stand before him. They hurried to comply, almost vibrating with energy. Bilbo wondered perhaps if he could have toned that down some, when he'd brought them back to life. It was an innate characteristic of the two of them, though, and surely others would notice. A pity.

 

"Calm yourselves," Thorin said, resting his elbows on his knees.

 

"It's difficult," Kíli replied, grinning.

 

"We thought we had died."

 

"We thought _you_ had died."

 

"None of us has." The King met Bilbo's eyes, and unseen to his nephews, watched his burglar smile. It was not kind.

 

Growing serious, Kíli asked, "Did Gandalf have something to do with it?"

 

There was a short silence. "Where _is_ Gandalf?" Fíli frowned.

 

Here Bilbo cleared his throat. "He had to leave. I didn't really understand his explanation of where he was going - Wizards, you know - but I think he went to meet with the White Council. Perhaps over that thing he had to see to before we entered Mirkwood?"

 

"Oh." Fíli shrugged one shoulder. "Shame we didn't get to say good-bye. Especially if he was the one to save all of us."

 

Kíli nudged him. "What do you mean 'if'? Of course it was him."

 

"And you're forgetting our Maker? Do you think he'd let us just die?"

 

"I don't think he has any say in how our lives go." Kíli frowned, obviously unsure. "He did not interfere when Smaug came to Erebor."

 

"Aye, but that was a trial – a test of our spirit, and one that we have weathered." Fíli shook his head. "I do not think he would let us fall so close to victory."

 

The two of them would have continued their bickering (so long as their uncle didn't interfere) but for the laughter that wafted towards them. They turned, and while it was clear that Bilbo was trying to stifle his chuckles, they still asked what was so funny.

 

"I am happy," Bilbo said, not lying. He would rather this confusion spread than the truth - and if Gandalf later heard of these stories and came to confront him, Bilbo would deal with it. "You two..." He shook his head. "I'm very happy."

 

Bilbo again received an armful each of Dwarf prince, flaxen and sable hair ticking his face and nose, but this time did not mind.

 

He was, as he'd said, happy.

 

* * *

 

When a commotion started up outside the tent, Thorin lifted his head from Bilbo’s neck, turning to face the flap. They both heard raised voices - most notably Dwalin’s - before the flap was shoved aside and a tall figure ducked in.

 

Thranduil slid his sword out of its sheath with a soft sound; its point was directed unerringly at Bilbo. The Hobbit made no reaction, not even to slip out from between the covers. (But, considering that his clothes were on the floor instead of on him, perhaps this was excusable behaviour.)

 

“What are you?” The Elvenking’s face was twisted into a sneer, though perhaps one that paled in comparison to Thorin’s.

 

“How _dare_ you come into my tent and insult my Hobbit.” He’d surged to his feet the minute Thranduil had stepped in, and his fists were clenched by his sides. If he'd still had Orcrist, or the sword or axe he'd use during the battle, the blade of the weapon would have been at the Elf's throat.

 

Despite this hostility, Thranduil did not back down. He did not lower his sword. “I may not have extensive experience with Hobbits, but I know evil when I see it.”

 

“What you see is my future consort. Unless you want a war on your hands, Thranduil King, I would suggest you apologise or leave.” Thorin snorted. “I would prefer the latter.”

 

Now icy eyes met his. “You would prefer war.”

 

Thorin did not reply.

 

Thranduil turned back to Bilbo. "We have spoken before - and while I do not profess to know you as closely as this Dwarf, I know that you are different."

 

"And how do you know that?" Thorin asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "When have you seen Bilbo except when he went to you for help? Help he had to bribe you for, if I may add."

 

Ignoring the scathing jibe, Thranduil tossed his head. "I was present at your earlier announcement. A runner fetched me with news of the 'King' parading about with no trace of his injuries. I arrived in time for you to display your consort-to-be, like some sort of bauble to win the hearts of your soldiers - but I am not fooled. Either he has hidden his evil well until now, or he has been touched by Smaug." His fingers tightened around his sword hilt. "This is not the same Hobbit who begged me to spare your life."

 

Instead of the expected fury (to be truthful, that last sentence had been uttered purely to bait Thorin), the Dwarf nodded. "You are right."

 

Thranduil's eyes widened, and the tip of his sword listed downwards. "You agree with me?"

 

"Aye. You do not know Bilbo at all." He bared his teeth in an expression that could _not_ be mistaken as a smile. "Without this Hobbit, the Dragon would still be alive -"

 

"Your Hobbit _woke_ the Dragon, thus destroying the Men's town, and more destruction would have followed had it not been for Bard -"

 

Thorin raised his voice, overriding Thranduil, "I and mine would not have survived without him -"

 

"Yes, let us speak of that - of how you should be dead by all rights, from all the reports I have received -" Wasn't it _odd_ to hear an Elf shout? "Only the Enemy has ever had the power of Necromancy." He abruptly pointed a long forefinger at Bilbo, letting his sword-bearing arm relax at his side. "If Master Baggins has been tainted by evil, it should be drawn out of him. The White Council should be notified."

 

"And you honestly think that Gandalf would have left if Bilbo was possessed?" Thorin challenged, eyebrows raised.

 

"The Grey Wizard has been known to make mistakes." His eyes dragged up and down Thorin's person. "Putting the idea to reclaim Erebor in your head was one of them."

 

"Leave now." Thorin's eyes were dangerous, pale eyes dull. "Or die."

 

"I am no toadying subject of yours. You cannot order me."

 

Thorin surged forward, towards Thranduil and his weapon, but stopped. He looked down to see small fingers clamped over his wrist.

 

"Get out," Bilbo said softly.

 

Unsurprisingly, Thranduil resisted. He shuddered, as if throwing off a cold grip that had settled over his shoulders, and brought the point of his sword back up. "You will not succeed - whatever you are, whatever your plan is, you _will not succeed_. I swear it."

 

Bilbo smiled. He'd sat up in order to be able to reach for Thorin; the sheets had fallen away to his lap. He looked extraordinarily ordinary in naught but his skin - underweight for a Hobbit, yes, and heavily bruised, but in no way dangerous. Even his expression was one of politeness. "You'd best sheathe your sword," he said, still in the same tone. "People will think all sorts of things."

 

Slowly, as if against his will, the Elvenking obeyed. His jaw was tight, as if he wanted to protest but could not find the words.

 

With a light tug, Bilbo had Thorin seated on the bed. He wrapped his arms around the Dwarf, one hand coming up to rest lightly over Thorin's heart. Ever innocent, he leaned his cheek against a solid shoulder.

 

"Go now," he said.

 

Thranduil left.

 

* * *

 

To Bilbo, sleep was now a luxury instead of a necessity. This new truth was useful when he sat by Thorin's side and watched the satisfying rise and fall of his chest, and was useful when he crept out of their tent in the dead hours of the morning.

 

He was reasonably sure that the Elves had not yet left to Mirkwood. There had been no reports otherwise. If Thranduil had indeed left, his plan would have to be remedied - but it would be very troublesome to make the trek to the forest in secrecy. Best hope he could finish his work tonight.

 

The air was cool and calm. The stars dotted in the sky were arranged in ways unfamiliar to Bilbo; perhaps one night he could ask Thorin to point out the constellations. He took a moment to stare up at them, and then concentrated on his Ring.

 

Entering the pale, wispy world was like slipping into a bath, warm and comforting where before it felt like holding his breath under a raging river. Instead of the rushing in his ears that Bilbo had previously dealt with, there was blissful silence. He enjoyed the peace that washed over him before letting his consciousness spread.

 

Ah, good. They were still here.

 

Finding and sneaking past the Mirkwood army was simple enough. Bilbo had had to contend with these same Elves while the Company had been trapped in the dungeons - and that was when he'd not accepted the full power of his Ring. It was laughable how easily Bilbo could walk past beings known for their keen senses - so he did laugh, quietly, and then slipped into Thranduil's tent.

 

Inside, Bilbo briefly lamented that he could not slit the Elvenking's throat as he lay asleep with his eyes open (and  plant evidence of the assassin amongst the Men's camp), and instead concluded his business quickly as he could. He congratulated himself as he walked, and entered the King's tent without raising anyone's suspicion.

 

Thorin's eyes were open when Bilbo threw off his veil of invisibility.

 

"Where have you been?"

 

Bilbo shrugged this question off as easily as he removed his shirt. "Exploring." He smirked. "Is that a crime?"

 

"I am a King. I can make it one, especially for you."

 

"Best work on being threatening, Thorin." He climbed onto the bed, then climbed atop his Dwarf. "Especially for me."

 

Thorin's hands had automatically gone to Bilbo's wide waist, smoothing their way down his breeches to reach his thighs - but he'd paused in the middle of the motion. He'd found something. Something hard. "What is...?"

 

"Put your hand in my pocket and find out for yourself."

 

As soon as calloused fingers brushed over the cool stone (with some difficulty, given the angle), Thorin's eyes widened. He pulled the Arkenstone from Bilbo's pocket, beholding it for the first time since he'd been shown it at the Gate. It shone, breaking and reflecting light between the two of them into a myriad of rainbows - the size of a fist and so dangerously beautiful.

 

Beautiful to others, perhaps. Bilbo had no time for anything that was not Thorin - or the Ring on his finger.

 

Thorin stared at the Arkenstone for so long that Bilbo started to twitch. But then, with his future-consort watching, Thorin let the multicoloured gem thud to the floor without ceremony. He used that same hand to fist in Bilbo's golden hair, pulling him down to meet their lips.

 

Bilbo melted into the embrace.

 

It was a good choice, really, and a lucky one. Had Thorin been more interested in the Arkenstone, Bilbo would've had to _fix_ the situation. But all was well, and Bilbo let his simmering power rest, setting it aside for the night. Instead he smiled, happy, and moved against his King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me be clear, Thranduil is not an evil character. I don't think so, anyway. He's too complicated for me to explain in these end notes, but because he is 'against' Bilbo (and Thorin, by extension), he's actually a 'good' character. [Let's not go into the mechanics of characters being more than good and evil, btw.]
> 
> Anyway. Bilbo is defs evil. Thorin is getting there. Thranduil is a good guy, but he can't make any moves without causing another war. Kingly duties before gut feeling, amirite?
> 
> Also, also: when I mentioned my updates would be sporadic, I meant it. Especially now in November, since NaNo's going on, and with all my other fics, and with life and meds and crap. You know the drill.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. The ones that have to do with this chapter are: smut, anal fingering, anal sex, voyeurism, rimming, choking.

It had to be said that Erebor's return to functionality happened sooner than most expected. It took mere months for the Dwarves to settle in, clear out the remains of Smaug's filth, remove rubble and strengthen passages, _and_ reopen the mines. Even for those familiar with the stolid strength and perseverance of the Dwarves, this was an awe-inspiring feat indeed.

 

Theories explaining how this was so flew abound. The most popular of them all was that returning to their great kingdom filled the Dwarves with an unquenchable fire in their souls, undimmed even by the almost insurmountable task that lay before them. Outsiders claimed that this fierce inner determination and discipline lent Dwarves fortitude; they were able to carry more burdens than expected, were able to handle more hours of work without rest, were able to push past any and all hindrances.

 

This was, as everyone reading this story knows, a theory that was very much untrue.

 

The reason that Erebor was well on its way to its former splendour was quite simply because of its King – and his newly named Consort.

 

Theirs was not the first wedding in the post-Smaug kingdom of Erebor, but it was perhaps the only one that was sure to be remembered in the annals of Middle-Earth history and not because of the splendour connected to it (as was befitting any royal wedding). It was not even the week of festivities that followed. No, theirs was a marriage that was remembered because of what followed _after_ those celebrations.

 

(And no, not their 'private' celebrations, thank you.)

 

The events that transpired after Thorin' and Bilbo's handjoining were to be well known in the years that followed – their ceremony was said to be the true beginning of the Dark Days of the world – the beginning of the end.

 

This was how it happened...

 

* * *

 

“Bilbo!”

 

Having been on the way to the treasury – Smaug had had the right idea about keeping the treasure in sight, and even if Bilbo couldn't sleep on the gems and precious metals, he could at least gaze to his heart's content –, the Hobbit stopped in the hallway and turned to face the two princes, head tilted to the side. He looked almost absent, even with the smile on his face. “Yes?”

 

“You must speak with Thorin,” Fíli said, without preamble.

 

The frown appeared on his brow before he could help it. “Must?” Bilbo's expression blanked abruptly, before Kíli and Fíli could even glance at one another – before either could even think it odd. “What is it that he’s done now?”

 

“It’s not one thing, it’s…” The younger of the two hesitated, biting his lip for a moment. “He’s never been this cruel, is all. He – he is not the uncle we know.”

 

It had been many months, and they'd only now noticed? Bilbo supposed that in another life, he and Thorin could have been skilled actors. “Things change, my lad. Especially if one has been betrayed as constantly as your uncle has.”

 

“But he ordered Lord Horan be beheaded!” Fíli cried. He looked horrified, eyes wide, and looked seconds away from grabbing his Hobbit uncle and shaking him.

 

A pause. “Who is Lord Horan?”

 

“He is the main objector to your position as King’s Consort. Or he was.”

 

...and his nephews didn't think that necessitated a death sentence? “I see.” Bilbo smoothed his hands down his new vambraces distractedly. They were fashioned from dragon scales, and a gift from his husband; in a word, striking. They matched his red tunic, and the gold accents of his clothes. “Very well. I will, as you asked, speak to him. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention.”

 

The two young Dwarves flung their arms around him, surrounding him with their cloying presence. His scowl was hidden in Kíli’s shoulder, and each of his hands were fists at their backs.

 

“Thank you, Uncle,” Fíli said, voice muffled in Bilbo’s neck.

 

Kíli rested his chin on the Hobbit’s head. “Whatever would we do without you?”

 

“Die, I expect.” He let them laugh. Let them think it a joke instead of the threat it was. “Oh, lads. You may go about your business – and promise me you won't worry. I will handle your uncle.” He made sure to watch them leave (not returning their waves), already back to their relaxed selves, pushing and shoving playfully at each other. Once alone, Bilbo’s expression hardened.

 

He would _always_ handle their uncle.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Amber_?”

 

The miners flinched back. “My King –”

 

“You think any of this is worthy tribute for my Consort?” Thorin tipped the chest with a heavy boot, uncaring that its contents scattered. In fact, it was rather satisfying to watch the Dwarves jump. “ _Tree resin_?”

 

“We only thought –”

 

“You _didn’t_ think! You –”

 

To the miners, Thorin only calmed because of the finger sliding down his arm. Unseen to anyone else, Bilbo’s other hand was nowhere innocent. It looked like he'd arrived just in time.

 

“Calm yourself, husband.”

 

“I will not." He snarled. "Not when there are idiotic –”

 

Bilbo squeezed his generous handful. Thorin was remarkably controlled in that he only growled under his breath.

 

“People are allowed mistakes.” He gazed calmly at Thorin, at the barely-contained fury held back like river water by a dam. Oh, how he wished to unleash that anger, have it wipe away the unwilling and the unworthy – but they could ill-afford making enemies of every single person in Middle-Earth.

 

It was better that they realised on their own that the only way to live was either to love or to fear Thorin’ and his rule.

 

“Once,” Thorin bit out.

 

“Once.” Bilbo angled his body and pressed even closer to Thorin’s, hiding his arousal against the handle of the Dwarf’s axe.

 

That was no euphemism.

 

“By the grace of my husband, it seems you will live another day,” Thorin said, gazing distastefully at the assorted Dwarves before them, some of whom poorly masked their relief. “I trust this will be motivation enough for you to uncover tribute befitting his position?”

 

The answer was immediate. “Yes, O' King.” The Dwarves bowed low, almost bent double, simpering toadies that they were.

 

As Thorin snorted in disgust and stalked away, a few of the younger miners started scooping the fallen nuggets of amber back into its chest. The head of the envoy tottered forward, his fist held over his heart.

 

“We apologise for any slight towards you, Consort. It was not our intention.”

 

Bilbo smiled and bowed in return. “Clearly not. But I would caution you against making the same mistake twice. I cannot always work miracles, and would much rather continue doing business with you.” And really, if they were stupid enough to make the same mistake, they deserved to die. Bilbo would see to it himself.

 

The Dwarf looked startled – as if he’d been expecting Bilbo to blush and stutter, _honestly_ – but before the Hobbit could tease further, Thorin barked out, “Bilbo!”

 

“I take my leave.”

 

He laid his fingers on Thorin’s arm as was proper, his steps quieter than the firm tread of Thorin’s steel boots as they walked to their quarters. If anyone was of a mind to intercept their King, they quickly changed their decision once they caught a glimpse of the expression on his face.

 

Bilbo only wished he could’ve had a full view of it, himself. He had no doubt it was terrifying and lovely, and that it would serve to fan the flames of his arousal.

 

Once behind the door, Bilbo found himself flung against it, waistcoat already torn off his shoulders. Thorin shoved his blouse upwards, biting – _biting_ – angry marks into his skin. His Consort only laughed merrily and pulled his head closer.

 

“You are lenient.”

 

Bilbo moaned at the thigh that was forced between his. “I’m patient,” he corrected. “I save my wrath for those that deserve it.”

 

“And my wrath should be mine to mete out.” He punctuated this by shoving his hips forward. There was a dull sound as Bilbo threw his head back and hit the door, scrabbling against the floor to retain his footing. Thorin solved this easily; strong hands bodily lifted him and he wrapped his legs around Thorin’s thick waist. He clutched at Thorin’s shoulders when a large hand roughly palmed him through his breeches.

 

“Bed,” he bit out. “Bed, now.”

 

Thorin obeyed, all but throwing his husband onto the mattress. The expression on his face showed his clear intent to _claim_ , and Bilbo’s thrill of excitement was nonetheless curbed as an idea pinged in his head.

 

“Wait.”

 

Thorin stood still at the quiet command. Bilbo was pleased at this, and figured he wouldn't be _as_ cruel as originally planned.

 

“Remove your clothing. You may not touch me so long as there is a stitch remaining on your body.”

 

Thorin almost looked like he would disagree. _Almost_. Bilbo held his gaze easily, leaning back on his palms and waiting, rubbing his thighs together for delicious friction. He didn’t stop the triumphant grin that crossed his face when Thorin cursed and started unbuckling and unlacing.

 

He'd never tire of Thorin unclothed. He represented power from every angle; the line of his shoulders, the strong curve of his backside down to his thighs, the hair spread generously across his chest and trailing down his belly to another thick thatch at the base of his cock. Scars criss-crossed along his skin, pale and jagged lines that told stories of his past. The still-pink one across his stomach made Bilbo's grin grow. He'd been partially responsible for that.

 

"Come here, then."

 

Thorin greedily sucked on Bilbo's tongue as he pushed him down onto the bed. His mouth was hot and sweet and slick, teeth a sharp pressure as they nibbled at Bilbo's underlip. Bilbo allowed Thorin this favour for a moment before curling his hand over Thorin's throat and shoving firmly. The Dwarf choked, falling to his side with the motion of Bilbo's push, coughing when Bilbo's hand tightened briefly.

 

"I didn't say you could touch me."

 

"You – did."

 

Bilbo hummed. "I said you couldn't touch me while you were still clothed. I didn't give you permission to touch me once you'd gotten rid of them." Stroking thoughtfully through the nest of hair between Thorin's legs and watching him twitch, he wondered what he could make his husband do.

 

He almost laughed. He could make Thorin do _anything_. The true question was _what_ that thing would be.

 

He removed his hands from Thorin’s body. "On your hands and knees." Bilbo waited a beat. "My King."

 

The look directed at him was utterly furious; Thorin's eyebrows were knitted together and his mouth tight, eyes pale slits of blue. Even then, he slowly levered himself into position. "You will pay for this," he growled.

 

Bilbo snorted, irreverent. “Head down.” He benevolently helped Thorin along with a hand on the back of his neck. He did not stop pushing until Thorin’s cheek was pressed against the sheets, his back arched beautifully, arse high in the air. Bilbo licked his lips. “Wait there.”

 

It didn’t take him long to scramble off the bed to fetch the oil; the bottle was shockingly cool to the touch, the texture of the glass smooth against his palm. Bilbo delayed by the bedside, enjoying the gorgeous picture Thorin made – seething and naked and all _his_. Blue eyes swivelled to catch his gaze, frustration and lust clear in their depths. More than anything else, Bilbo wanted to see how long the King would obey his command to be still.

 

The insistent pressure of his cock against his breeches, however, stayed his hand from further teasing. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as Bilbo rose to his knees behind Thorin.

 

Knowing very well that he should and could have warmed the oil, Bilbo still went ahead and splashed it onto Thorin’s lower back. A curl of satisfaction coiled in his belly when Thorin jerked and hissed. He didn’t care about the mess; some oil slid up Thorin’s spine, while the rest slipped between his cleft. Bilbo smiled.

 

“Prepare yourself. Start with two fingers.”

 

Thorin spat out a curse in Khuzdul – which Bilbo understood well enough, thanks to his ever-useful Ring – and looked to want to disobey. His pale eyes met Bilbo's... and then he lifted his left arm off the bed, reaching backwards.

 

Bilbo reached for the buttons of his shirt, smiling.

 

There was no hesitation at all, which Bilbo appreciated. He stored the information aside, to make sure he'd find some kind of reward for Thorin later. Now, though, now was the time for observation – because right in front of him was quite the spectacular view.

 

Thorin's thighs were thick and strong, powerful and tense. His toes curled and uncurled as he moved his hand – Bilbo wasn't quite sure which deserved more of his attention. In the end, the Dwarf's long, lovely toes lost out to his large, calloused fingers. They disappeared in and out of Thorin's body, the King occasionally letting them tease his furl of muscle, stretching it and groaning.

 

He knew how to put on a show, at least.

 

"Three fingers," Bilbo said, very kindly dribbling more oil where it was needed.

 

Thorin’s face was red with exertion; Bilbo watched, enraptured, as the muscles in his jaw twitched with every twist of his wrist.

 

Suddenly able to just watch, his small hands snaked forward of their own accord, gently stroking over Thorin’s arse before he pulled his cheeks apart. Dimly, Bilbo was aware that Thorin had made a strangled sound – but his focus was on the sight before him. He licked his lips helplessly.

 

“Faster,” he ordered, unable to formulate more than that one word. Bilbo hungrily looked his fill as Thorin’s fingers thrust into his own body, his pace near frantic. Unthinkingly, Bilbo’s blunt fingernails dug into Thorin’s flesh but he didn’t relieve the pressure even when Thorin bucked and gasped.

 

“Bilbo. Bilbo, hurry.”

 

“No.” He wanted to laugh, and did. Taking Thorin’s wrist in one hand, he pushed Thorin’s fingers in deeper, not caring about the odd way the joint was being flexed. Not caring about the low cry it gained him. When he leaned down and slid his tongue between Thorin's fingers, it wasn't to soothe but to hear the ragged edge to his begging.

 

Even Bilbo could not ignore such sincere pleading. He was not quite that heartless – but he remained where he was for a moment longer, noisy as he licked and lapped. He caught his teeth on the rim, quite by accident, and Thorin almost spilled then and there.

 

It did not take long for Bilbo unbutton his breeches, pushing the cloth aside only enough to free his length. He took it in hand and stroked, liquid gathering at the tip before leaking along his cock. It was awfully tempting, now that he was fisting himself, to leave Thorin hanging instead of pressing it into that deep, dark heat. Bilbo could and would be quite happy to kneel where he was and spill hot streaks over Thorin's arse and thighs. Just lovely.

 

It was just too bad that he had a plan to see through.

 

Bilbo shuffled forwards, holding his cock steady. A terse order had Thorin gasping as he removed his fingers; there was a sobbing hiccup when Bilbo deliberately slid the head of his cock along Thorin's stretched entrance.

 

"Push back." Bilbo's free hand crept up his chest to play with his Ring and the delicate chain he'd threaded it on. "Impale yourself on me."

 

Thorin's control was commendable – perhaps even deserving of another reward. He did not stop, did not pause, did not go slowly. He was snug around Bilbo, and very steadily slid back, taking the flushed cock into his body until there was nothing left to take.

 

They breathed.

 

Bilbo did not move.

 

For the first few moments, Thorin presumably imagined that his Consort had merely been catching his breath, or gathering the threads of his control. In truth, Bilbo was immeasurably in control, and was delaying for a purpose. A slow smile spread across his face when Thorin groaned and rubbed his cheek against the sheets – but did not move his hips.

 

"Before we continue, my love," Bilbo grazed his hand down Thorin's thigh, "you will explain why you saw fit to deal with Lord Horan the way you did."

 

Thorin's voice was a deep, hoarse rumble. "What about him?"

 

"You cannot kill your subjects willy-nilly. Just as you tried to do earlier." Bilbo counted his heartbeat for half a minute, then continued, "There will be no subjects to rule, should you persist in such a manner."

 

There was another curse that had Thorin clenching around Bilbo beautifully. "He – he impugned your honour. And, after – after our handjoining. That is treason."

 

He hummed as he considered this – as he watched a bead of sweat slide up Thorin's back (or was that the oil he’d spilled earlier?) To be truthful, slander sounded like logical grounds for Lord Horan's execution. Publicising that reasoning would be an excellent way of preventing such actions in the future – as well as preventing the truly needless deaths that would doubtless follow.

 

"Be that as it may, it is wasteful and reckless. You may not dispense such judgements without my approval.” Bilbo drew his tongue over his teeth. “Will you promise me this?"

 

The immediate reply was a growl, angry and base. Thorin's hands had fisted in the sheets, knuckles gone white. "My rule is absolute, and I will not be questioned –"

 

Bilbo thrust forward shallowly to quieten his husband. "I am not questioning your rule. I am merely... organising it. Simplifying." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Thorin's back, tracing the ridges of his spine with his tongue and tasting the salty tang of his skin. "I wish only to help, my King."

 

"I do not – _ah_ – do not see how disallowing killing will help –"

 

"Oh, I'm not going to disallow it." Bilbo straightened and rocked his hips forward again, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that his husband would obey him. "There will be necessary deaths. People you will need to sentence." His voice dropped to a whisper. "To kill."

 

Thorin shuddered.

 

"Promise me. Promise me, and I will promise to fulfil your every desire."

 

He smiled at the response he was given and set about bequeathing his husband’s reward. The gasped answer he’d received sounded like music to Bilbo's ears, and was every bit as satisfying as the scream he later tore from Thorin's throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you be wondering if this fic will be one depraved sex scene after the other... the answer is 'probably yes'. There will be plot, but there will be scenes like this. Just a warning.
> 
> (Also: if you require me to tag something, particularly something triggery, please don't hesitate to ask.)

**Author's Note:**

> This will update whenever I feel like it. It keeps in with the whole evil theme better that way, I think.


End file.
